


That Second First Chance

by monstermasks



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Soft Boys, guys it's really happening, proof of concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 07:17:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18245024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstermasks/pseuds/monstermasks
Summary: A bit of shameless drabble I wrote based entirely on the 'proof of concept' Queliot moment we all didn't know we needed. I lie, we knew we needed it...................“Quick query for you, Q,” 'Be brave', he reminds himself, and then mentally amends that to 'or pretend to be', because they can’t all be valiant boy-heroes. “Any idea what day it is?”





	That Second First Chance

“Quick query for you, Q,” Eliot drawls in the very best impression of carelessness he can give just now. It is, admittedly, not his greatest; his voice cracks slightly, the two wine-glasses in his hand shake, and a tell-tale heat around the cheekbone area would suggest that he’s probably blushing, fuck his entire life. _Be brave,_ he reminds himself, and then mentally amends that to _or pretend to be,_ because they can’t all be valiant boy-heroes. “Any idea what day it is?”

Quentin glances over at him with exactly the kind of weary smile Eliot was expecting, before turning back to his perusal of the grounds.

“Today?” He tries tiredly, which pretty much summarises the energy levels of the squad just at this moment. Now is maybe not the best time, exactly, for this conversation. The whole sorry lot of them are only one day out from the most recent shitstorm, after all, and not one of them is at what might be called their best selves. Margot’s pissed, Alice is actively hunting out people to piss off (clearly, she found Margot first), Penny's fucked off into the ether again, and Quentin himself has a massive cut on his arm that looks like it stings like a mother. Now is maybe not a good time. But it’s also the only time.

“Do you know what day it is?” Eliot repeats, his voice gratifyingly steadier on the second attempt, and hands Quentin a glass of wine.

“Mmm, Tuesday?” Quentin throws out, still not quite paying attention. He’s looking out over the school grounds, mentally making repairs, setting up defences, and considering likely avenues for further research into whatever’s looming on the horizon. Well, Eliot assumes that’s what’s he’s doing. He could just be high.

“Tue- _no,_ Q, it’s like Friday at least,” Eliot is momentarily waylaid by Quentin’s inability to even be on the right end of the week, but Quentin, who seems remarkably unbothered by both time-keeping and Eliot’s dismay, just laughs softly.

“Go on then, tell me what I’m missing,” Quentin smiles and turns his head and _there,_ now Eliot has his full attention. He breathes deep against the heavy weight of kind-sad-knowing eyes, at the smallest curvature of Quentin’s mouth, at that softness direct right at him. Eliot swallows hard, _pretend to be brave, pretend to be brave._

“Actually, I wasn’t referring to what day of the week it was, not that you were anywhere close on that count, I was-“ The words dry up and Eliot abruptly realises he doesn’t know how to do this without a smirk or a suggestive tilt or any of his normal barriers. How do you even go about telling someone something like this? Maybe someone else could (Q could, Q _has_ ), but not Eliot with his stupid, smooth Eliot-words, damn it all. He bites his lip and glances sideways at Quentin. Actually… Quentin didn’t really use words at all, did he? Not that first time. And it’s not like it didn’t work…

Quentin draws in a startled breath when Eliot kisses him and freezes, if only for a moment. He always has been a little quicker on the uptake than he likes to appear. A single breath passes, and then Quentin is all softness; body melding against Eliot’s own, lips upturned. There are hands cradling his face and Eliot can’t remember when Quentin placed them there (or what happened to their wine glasses) but he feels like some, rare, shatterable thing held together between Quentin’s palms. He has never, ever, felt like this except maybe just once, a lifetime ago, sitting on an impossible puzzle. Eventually Quentin draws back, just enough to rest his forehead against Eliot’s.

“How could I forget our anniversary?” He asks, amused.

“If I turn around and you’ve run off and gotten married again, we will being _having words._ ” Eliot snarks back which, ok, wasn’t the most romantic thing to say ever, but if Q wants more sentiment than Eliot’s hand gripped tightly in his shirt, than the breaking smile on his face, than the laugh barely hidden in his voice… well, too bad. He lost this boy once, he’s not letting it happen again.


End file.
